


Chamber of Memory

by Ginger Jam (skylite), skylite



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-16
Updated: 2001-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/Ginger%20Jam, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/skylite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately after the events of Goblet of Fire, Neville Longbottom begins to change into a wizard worthy of Gryffindor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chamber of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter universe and all the characters in it are the  
> properties of J. K. Rowling and Warner Entertainment. This story is in no way  
> intended as a challenge to the rights of the copyright holders/owners. No  
> profit is being made from this story, nor should any be made save by the  
> rightful owners of the property. This story is for entertainment purposes  
> only.
> 
> FEEDBACK: always appreciated.
> 
> CONTINUITY: Immediately after Book IV: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.  
> Good idea to read all four before you read this but not _absolutely_ necessary.  
> Book 4 has been out for months, that's the most recent, so if you've never read  
> Harry Potter before, you might consider some of this spoilers.
> 
> Also, this is an old fic, and I am not really active in the HP fandom any longer.

Harry Potter, the school celebrity, looked his usual self, if a little pale and wan.

He could hardly be blamed for it, though. He'd just spent the entire school year doing amazing tasks for the Triwizard Tournament, and had actually managed to win. Unfortunately, the price of that victory was the life of their classmate, fifth year Cedric Diggory. And worse, Cedric's death had been caused by...

...by...

...by...

_Voldemort.._

The worst evil wizard of all time had finally stopped marshalling his strength. He had returned. For real. For true. And Harry had, by what little account was made public, barely escaped and that after having bravely faced down the murderer of his parents.

Headmaster Dumbledore had been the one to lay this ominous news into the laps of the Hogwarts students at the final farewell feast of the year. He assured the students, one and all, that it was unlikely their parents would be receptive to this news. Some might even refuse to believe it. But he impressed with a deadly calm seriousness that Voldemort had indeed returned.

The mood in the dining hall was somber and subdued as Dumbledore spoke earnestly about Diggory's bravery and that his death was caused by an unfortunate happenstance that brought him into Voldemort's path.

Once out of the dim castle and into the bright sunshine, though, the mood lightened visibly. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students who'd come for the Tournament for the year said goodbye to their new friends. The alluring, beautiful, Fleur Delacoeur actually spared him -- Neville Longbottom -- a smile and a polite nod as she breezed back to the fairy tale carriage that would spirit them back to France.

Viktor Krum, world famous Quidditch Chaser also grunted in what was for him a polite manner as he tramped toward the dark ship that would return the Durmstrang students to their school in the east.

Neville watched it all with an emotionless detachment -- like it was something he was seeing happen in a crystal ball rather than actually happening around him. He moved like an automaton, slow, heavy steps carrying him down the front walkway to the gates. He lifted luggage mindlessly and easily that he had struggled clumsily with at the beginning of the year and over vacations. He did not speak to the brothers Creevey, who peered incessantly out the window, trying to catch just _one_ more glimpse of Harry Potter before they were all separated for the summer.

Something was odd inside Neville's head. Something in his mind didn't feel quite right. It was as though Dumbledore's first revealation about Diggory had tapped a sharp mallet right on some stress point in his psyche, and fractured a block he hadn't known was there. As the speech had continued, so Neville's feeling of a dam breaking in his mind intensified.

He had no idea why he felt this way, but he did. And with this feeling that something had been hidden in his own head, came a determination. If Cedric Diggory had been brave enough to face Voldemort, if Harry Potter could ... then no student at Hogwarts could do any less.

Not even him.

Once that thought would've stricken the color from his cheeks, and set him to a palsied shake borne of nerves and feelings of inferiority. Neville Longbottom, despite the distinguished placement in Gryffindor house by the Sorting Hat, was an inept wizard at best. Neville was not one to mince words about it; he said he was little better than a Squib, and was constantly apologizing for disappointing everyone.

Now, though -- the thought spread a cold resolve through him. Dumbledore had said the adults would likely not be receptive. He didn't know how his grandmother would take the news. In fact, he didn't care. He would convince her, even if it took him all night calmly repeating Dumbledore's speech word for word.

The bright red of the Hogwarts Express was wasted on Neville today. He shuffled aboard and stowed his luggage, including his toad, Trevor. He turned his face to the window, and watched as the scenery began to move away from the school. After a few moments he could only see the lake. Then the Forbidden Wood. Then, everything was a green blur before his eyes as the train headed back toward London.

 _Why am I not scared?_ he asked himself. _Because you know you have to carry your weight now. With Voldemort back, no one will have time or inclination to  
mollycoddle the chubby little Squib kid._ He noticed distantly that he didn't flinch as the name Voldemort crossed his mind. It was as though saying it helped steel the resolve that was even now growing in him.

Malfoy walked past him; Neville didn't even bother to glance up. Apparently sensing he'd get no rise out of the normally skittish and mild Longbottom, the Slytherin and his two cronies continued on to the next compartment. 

The trip passed in a haze to Neville; the speech replayed in his mind on constant loop. With every repetition he seemed to take Dumbledore's words that much more seriously. In retrospect, he noticed the solemn, grieving, and determined look on Harry Potter's face. He noticed the Slytherins refusing to toast Diggory's memory or Harry's courage. He noticed Dumbledore's quiet emphasis on Harry and Cedric's bravery.

When the Express pulled into the station in London, Neville had shaken off most of his reverie. He clung to the rest with determination because it was keeping the fear at bay he knew very well he would otherwise be feeling.

The cab that normally waited to take him to his grandmother's house was absent. Instead, his grandmother stood on the platform herself, expresison grave beneath her ridiculous vulture topped hat. "Grandmother," he said to her solemnly. "We have much to talk about."

"Yes, Neville," she agreed, voice uncharacteristically soft. Normally she shrieked at him with the harshness of a fishmonger. _Perhaps,_ Neville mused, _she'd foreseen this sudden personality shift._ "Come, now. We'll talk in the car."

He stowed his trunk in the car, pausing only to make certain that Trevor was safe before settling beside his grandmother in the back seat. He paused, letting her decide whether he would speak first or whether she would.

She held silent and he took it as assent that he should proceed. "Voldemort is returned," Neville said softly. The dam in his mind finally gave, and with it, came a sudden tingling in his eyes. He felt the need to cry, but he was uncertain over what. This was grave news, but there was no call for tears yet.

"I know, boy," Grandmother said softly. "Dumbledore sent me a notice. He sent notices to all of those who had relatives likely to react to the news with a lick of sense." She clasped his shoulder. "And you came home, to tell me this news, immediately. Without flinching." Though she did not speak the words, an unspoken [I'm proud of you] hung in the air after she finished speaking.

"So you will train me over this summer to help stand against him, then?" Neville asked. His voice held the tone that indicated the question was a courtesy only; a formality. If Grandmother would not teach him, he would send an owl to Hermione Granger. If she could not assist him, then he would head into Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley and seek out someone who would. "I am Gryffindor, and it's high time I acted the part."

Grandmother smiled at this; her wrinkled face lighting and her eyes brightening. "You've done it a time or two so far, Neville," she reminded him gently. "But I see you will not be dissuaded from this. But can you tell me why it's so important?"

"Yes," Neville began. Then he paused. "No. It is just a feeling I have. That I must do all I can to help stand against Voldemort."

Grandmother nodded solemnly. "That's about what I expected, Neville. Brace yourself." She drew her wand out of her enormous handbag. She circled it once around Neville's head. Twice. Thrice. The tip of her wand began to hum and pulse with power. "Cubicularius ab memoria, effringo!" There was a flash of bright gold light from the tip of her wand, and Neville felt a lancing pain between his eyes. The last blocks of the dam that had been falling apart in his mind gave completely now. Neville gasped, but stayed rooted to the spot as memories came rushing unbidden into his mind. _A memory spell,_ he remembered now. _Placed on me until I was old enough, ready, able to handle the truth. About my parents. What_ Voldemort _did to my parents._

His parents had been Aurors, like Moody -- who had actually been locked in his trunk the whole year rather than teaching advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. The recollection coming back to him now showed that Moody had been a good friend of his parents, and damn near a beloved uncle to Neville himself.

And Voldemort had sent his Death Eaters against his parents. They had first come for his mother, but she was strong enough alone to fight off the pair who approached. They approached in greater numbers for the second attack and went instead for Neville himself. They knew his parents would not attack with abandon while their child's life hung in the balance -- a child's life that mattered nothing whatsoever to Voldemort and his cabal.

They submitted and after a time, succeeded apparating him to the safety of his grandmother's highly warded home. But they did not follow. The child was of no consequence to them but his parents? Oh, yes. To have a pair of aurors, the Ministry's finest, in their thrall? Too delicious an opportunity to pass. If they could not crack the Longbottoms' resolve and strike to the heart of the Ministry, it would serve just as good a purpose to destroy them utterly -- to make of them an example: We Are The Death Eaters. Your Resistance Will Cost You Dear.

Neville's last view of his parents faces as their failing strength combined to power an apparation/protection spell, was them holding each other up. They were bruised, bloody, and likely broken.

Neville had been only a baby at the time. He'd been terrified, inconsolable. His grandmother had done her best, even though she was not precisely an empathic or soothing presence. His uncles and aunts had all likewise done the same, but baby Neville cried for his mother and father every time one of the adults around him paused to catch his breath.

After three months of this -- and no sign of his parents yet -- it was decided that the only thing to do would be to put a memory charm on Neville until such time as he was old enough to cope with his memories. Grandmother and one of his uncles had done it together. It had been a very powerful spell. _This explains why,_ Neville realized, _The family was always trying to get me to show I had magic. It would help fortify me._ Neville smiled sadly. _It also explains why I have been so forgetful all my life._

He looked up at his Grandmother. "Mother and Father are in the sanitarium at St. Mungo's, yes?" His memory told him this was the case. They had been found about six months after his memory charm had been set -- he'd heard Grandmother speaking into the flue about it with some wizard acquaintance of hers. But it too had been absorbed into the morass of hidden memories, only returning to him now. He could remember visiting them, distantly, as though it were happening to someone else. But he could never remember until now why they did not recognize him, nor why they were so ill.

Now he did.

The car pulled up to Grandmother's house. "We'll begin tomorrow," she said. "Eat a good dinner, get to bed early. You will have a lot of work ahead of you."

Neville nodded silently and followed her into the house. The rest of the family was already gathered, including the uncle who'd discovered Neville's magic by dropping him out the window. He greeted them all politely, but did not bother with niceties. He sat at his usual place in the dining room and ate with the text book he'd used in the aborted Dark Arts class open in front of him. He pored over the pages, barely tasting his food. "Good night, Grandmother. See you in the morning. Sunup." It was not a request. Whether she was there and ready or not, Neville fully intended to be awake and at practice with the first light of day.

The door closed behind him. Neville reached down and turned the latch, locking the door. He then sat down on the tiny three legged stool in the corner of his room. He took out his wand and stared down at it. Then the final dam broke, and he found himself sobbing helplessly into his hands. He could remember his mother's touch, her perfume -- the lullabyes she'd sung to him. He remembered the bruises like obscene flowers on her face, and the blood caking one eye shut. He could remember his father's seemingly impossible strength. The smell of his pipe smoke, and the books he used to read Neville before bed. He remembered his father's shaking hands as he embraced his son, and the broken voice with which he spoke the incantation to apparate Neville to safety. 

Resolute, with memories to fuel his determination, Neville began to practice.

"Expecto patronum."

"Expelliarmus."

"Furnunculus."

"Augeo."

"Tueor."

"Volaticus."

The sun went down.

The moon came up, bathing Neville in silvery blue light. _I will carry my weight and fight like a lion. I will avenge my parents. I will not fail those who depend on me to be equal to this task._

The jitters were gone. The uncertainty that dogged his steps and made him cringe from the likes of Snape at school were no more. They likely would not recognize him in the fall. So much the better.

The Death Eaters were probably not expecting the Aurors' Son to have a brain in his head either.

Neville Longbottom allowed himself a small smile at that thought, then went back to his practising.


End file.
